Even the World Wants You to Overindulge
by Grand Phoenix
Summary: Nothing seems to want to make sense, except when it does. (Or, the Deathlord has a certain...gravitas when it comes to being around people.)[Legion era, pre-Tomb of Sargeras]


**Notes1:** This fanfic is pretty much my adaptation of the "To Dalaran, With Love" quest that jewelcrafters do to get Jabrul the drogbar up to Dalaran in _Legion_. Given that BfA is four months out from release (and _Legion_ was already a grind-heavy expansion to begin with), I never really bothered to max out my professions on any of my alts outside of Mishka (her jobs being skinning and leatherworking) so as the time of this post I haven't gone any further on my DK - who is indeed Albani - than the aforementioned JC quest.

 **Notes2:** I'm not sure if anyone remembers _The Redeemers: Manifest Destiny_ , but it was an old Warcraft story I did that crossed over with Black Rock Shooter. It was pretty much an isekai (other world)/reincarnation fic in which the cast of BRS were all killed off/died one way or another (given the nature of how Black Shooters were created in it, those were the only ways, barring rare and unusual circumstances) and were purchased by the souls from the Threshold and other dimensions to be revived on a world of their master's choosing. All of them were eventually brought to Azeroth due to a partnership Threshold brokered and established with the Knights of the Ebon Blade, who would take the Black Shooters under their wing and not only train them as soldiers to fight but to become accommodated to their new world that they would have to call home. This story was eventually removed twice - once due to my discontent at how the first draft was going (the Black Shooters were reanimated DKs that were reborn in the time of _The Burning Crusade_ ), and the second being a discontent with the direction I was taking it, especially in light of a plot thread that would have involved some immersion-breaking fourth-wall nods. Since enough time's passed and I've learned a bit more in this writing craft shindig, I hope that when it goes up again a third time it won't fall into the same trappings.

But back to the topic at hand: In that crossover, before it had been taken down, there would have been a chapter in which Albani, having just come back to Acherus, would have been given Mato/Rock via Thassarian to train in the art of war; she would have been one of the girl's many teachers to prepare Mato/Rock for when she was ready to venture beyond the Plaguelands and into the world. However, Albani's personality was more somber and serious if not emotionally withdrawn; however, teaching Mato/Rock would have opened her up about the drawbacks undeath (and the mental compulsion Arthas had on the DKs) has on a person.

This is a much lighter and softer story than _The Redeemers: Manifest Destiny_ and its sequels would have gone on to be, _especially_ in light of the Grey to Grey Morality _Battle for Azeroth_ is doubling down on (Albani would not have slain the red dragons in their Sanctum but would have to endure their wrath plus the Silver Hand's due to the DKs' failed attack on Light's Hope Chapel; and Mato/Rock would willingly become a wild card and fight against both Alliance and Horde to ensure the Heart of Azeroth is empowered).

It's a silly story, and in no way related to the crossover. Compared to the above statements, I've intentionally flanderized my DK OC into an Ayanami Rei-lite character...that is, if Ayanami Rei also had an obligation to indulge the sadism hardwired into her every now and then while still finding time to go traipsing across the Broken Isles for gems to cut for Tiffany Cartier :P

 **Notes3:** Also, the way Wraith Walk is mentioned in this story doesn't work the way it does in _Warcraft/Heroes of the Storm_ , although it certainly wouldn't hurt death knights to be more creative, being immortal undead killing machines.

* * *

Nothing seems to want to make sense, except when it does. So it comes as no surprise at all (except when it should) that when the ladies inside the shop start screaming bloody murder, the first thing Albani does is not run but walk—as sweet and slow as can be—up the stairwell, past the crowd of alarmed pedestrians on a street that's suddenly gone deathly quiet. She ignores them and doesn't say a word; one look at the black, skull-fashioned armor and the twin, rune-forged blades of ice on her hips and they back way the hell up and pretend nothing happened. She's grateful for their sincerity…and maybe their condolences for what she's about to put herself into.

She stops at the threshold, raises an above her head, and leans against the threshold leading inside. The jewelry store is an abode of absolute chaos. As far as she can tell; drogbar are big, but Jabrul is doubly so he could make a Stonemaul ogre look like a full-grown human by comparison.

"HOLY HAND GRENADE!" Sminx Glasseye says, gawping up at the drogbar that's taking up half the interior with his bulk alone. "You're huge!"

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT THING?!" Tiffany Cartier yells. There's a look of sheer, utter terror on her face, as if the end of the world has finally come for her. Or maybe it's because she's backed up, as far as the space behind the counter allows her, against the glass cabinet full of fine necklaces, rings, and other cut jewels sitting on velvet, purple pillows and marble busts, and that if she puts any more pressure on it she's bound to go through it.

"Ladies, ladies, settle down," Timothy Jones is saying, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "If I didn't know any better, I believe this is the jewelcrafting master Albani has been working with. Am I right, Miss?" he asks her, turning.

"You are," she says. In the stillness of the shop, the soft, necromantic echo of her voice does not go unnoticed. Lazily, she raises a hand toward the drogbar. "This is Jabrul."

"Hello! It is a pleasure to meet you!" Jabrul says cheerfully (as if they hadn't heard him the first time), and rises to his full height. His shadow takes up half the floor, and his grin is wide and startlingly, squarely white against his red skin. It makes him look like a specter of death with the sole purpose of causing property damage and kidnapping children and maidens to put into his cauldron for soup.

Albani thinks Tiffany Cartier has the same idea, because for a moment the woman sways on her feet and is all but ready to pass out. She doesn't, but she's shaking her head in dumb, blind disbelief. "You're Jabrul…?" When he nods, she wakes up a little more and picks up tempo. "No…No. No no no no. This…This has to be a joke. It has to be." She pins the death knight with a glare bordered on withering. "You're capable of jokes, right? Even someone like you has to have a sense of humor!"

"I do." And that is very much true…but this is the last place to make a crack about tossing newly risen novices off the roof of Acherus by teaching them how to reduce damage from great heights with the Wraith Walk. The poor woman is one sentence away from dropping at her feet, but maybe if she does, she'll wake up later and think this is all a dream…at least, Albani thinks, until she sees Jabrul again. She should go easy on her, because unlike most of her brethren she still has this thing called _manners_ and _common sense_ (both of which were wired into her when Arthas strolled into the Plaguelands not so long ago, so there's one thing she's grateful for even if the circumstances were…not what she hoped for).

"So where's the punch line?!"

"That's it right there."

Tiffany Cartier glances between Jabrul, whose grin makes him look more maniacal than happy, Sminx (who shrugs), Timothy Jones (who shrugs right back), at Jabrul again (still smiling), and then finally stops on Albani (whose neutral expression hasn't changed in the slightest).

Her mouth opens, closes shut, opens again, and closes shut. Albani is reminded of a fish she caught once off the coast of the Krasarang Wilds, back before the Alliance and the Horde built their bases and locked horns for the umpteenth time. It had given her a tough time, and when she had finally reeled it in it had flown right off the hook and onto the shore away from the tide that would carry it back to the sea. There it belly-flopped, up and down and down and up. Albani was hungry, but she was struck by a wellspring of pity (and maybe a little perturbed at the way its eyes stared up at the bright blue sky, never blinking), so when it had simmered down she snagged it by the tail and threw it into the water where it would recover and swim far, far away.

She ate good that day…but she wondered what became of that fish. (She wonders where it's at now.)

Tiffany Cartier shakes her head again, but now the color is returning to her cheeks and she doesn't look quite so mortally endangered as before. "But…But Lasune…! I sent you to find Lasune Starblade, not…you know—!"

Albani sighs. "See, that's the thing," she begins. "She's a jewelcrafter, but not a _master_ jewelcrafter. She said Jabrul was in the Wretched Hollow to study the harpies, but he wound up getting ambushed." She arches a long, black brow. "Didn't you read the letters he sent you?"

A flash of understanding. "You mean to tell me those rocks were letters?"

Sminx claps a hand to her forehead. "Oh my gob, Tiff! How could you not read them? Even I could tell they were signed—"

"And dated!" Jabrul adds proudly.

"And dated _by_ him!" the goblin echoes.

She sputters, struggling to speak, and Albani is once again reminded of the fish she let slip away. It would've been heartwarming if she could feel a semblance of warmth in this cold body and Tiffany Cartier didn't look like she was being strangled for pocket change. "But…but…!" She pauses, realization dawning on her face. It is the face of a woman who has come up with an idea on the fly. "The handwriting! It was so large! So…difficult to read! Yes! I couldn't tell if they were runic or what. They didn't seem to make sense to me! I…I thought it was a prank!"

It is the face of a woman who can't lie to save her life. Albani's shoulders slump. So does Timothy Jones's, and if him walking away in a huff is any indication, he can't believe he has to put up with it. Poor guy.

Jabrul rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "Jabrul tried to write as small as he could! Jabrul guesses not everything fit on them! Jabrul is very sorry!"

"How come _I_ didn't have a problem with them?" Timothy mutters under his breath, but it's not low enough to go unheard. Tiffany grimaces, a muscle twitching in one cheek and right next to an eye. Sminx puts a fist to her mouth and covers what sounds like a snicker directed at her boss; Tiffany glares at her but keeps quiet.

Albani knocks her head against the doorway and rakes her nails lightly through her scalp; it feels good, so she focuses on that when she speaks. "Well, they were letters," she says. "Jabrul needed help with some designs he wanted to experiment with and share with me, so I went to Stormheim and did what he asked of me." She looks at Tiffany beneath her lashes, and though it isn't intended the woman squirms, seeming for all the world to want to bolt from the store and search for safety (it really isn't, so Albani decides she needs to work on not scaring the absolute piss out of people with such a flat look when she feels the need for rest later this week). "Have you heard of the Eyes of Nashal? Jabrul came up with the idea to fashion a cut gem from a pair of jewels that were hidden in a tower called Nashal's Watch. All the way up there," she adds, idly twirling a lock in her fingertips, "hiding in plain sight where no one could reach…until now. We cut them together, once I brought them back down; they're in my bag, if you need proof. I think Jabrul's assistance could go a long way in providing more lucrative deals and commissioned work for your store."

"She's got a point, boss," says Sminx. "Wouldn't hurt to expand a little."

"I agree," says Timothy, a little more energetically than earlier. "Waste not, want not! After all, this land is seething with untapped potential, and who better to tap that than Cartier & Co. Fine Jewelry?"

Tiffany relaxes. "W-Well…when you put it that way…the _other_ way, Timothy! By the Light!" He smirks, and Sminx covers another snicker behind her fist. She ignores them, recoups her composure, clears her throat. "May I see these jewels, Albani?"

"Certainly," she says, because Tiffany Cartier is a fussy woman of (presumably) high breeding and she won't take noncommittal sounds of agreement for anything less than an answer. She pushes off the threshold, slips a hand beneath the flap of her pack, and, as she walks inside, shows them to the lapidaries.

"Oh wow," says Sminx, leaning in for a closer look. They're small things that fit in the palm of her hand, shaped like bloody teardrops that catch the light of the overhead fluorescents. "That's not too bad." She retrieves a chained loupe from the pocket of her vest, slips it over an eye, and adjusts it to her preferred settings. "Not bad at all," she repeats, "for someone who hasn't cut in a while."

"The craft can be dulled, but the spark of inspiration stays…forever!" says Timothy Jones, with a dramatic flair.

Tiffany Cartier gets in between the two and all but doubles over to see the rubies. Has to put a hand on her chin, cock her head back and forth, and jut her lower lip out all the while humming diplomatically. Albani is reminded of the bush chickens that roam the Searing Gorge, chickens that toddle back and forth and peck the earth for scrub and berries inedible for human consumption. These are chickens that are left alone and in peace…that is, until Pilgrim's Bounty rolls around the corner and their numbers drop to endangered levels again. They never seem to get a break; somebody ought to provide for the poor birds. "Well," she starts, "this is a lot better than the last few gems you've cut under my supervision. A most definite improvement…but you have a long way to go. You must never stop practicing, or Light forbid your craft will leave you. You're not immortal."

"Functionally I am," says Albani. "I don't really have a need to eat, or to sleep, or to breathe, really..." They were, for lack of a better word, phantom sensations. The digestive system still worked at the most basic level, but she never felt the need to act on them based on anything but boredom or feline restlessness in the middle of the night when only the shopes in the Underbelly were open for business. "I can still die—"

"It's a figure of speech, Albani!" Tiffany snaps heatedly. Then, clearing her throat again, she fixes her collar and tosses her hair over her shoulder. "Ahem! As I was saying, you should keep at it."

"And…?" Albani's eyes flicker to Jabrul…who is _still grinning_.

Tiffany nearly jumps out of her skin, but she doesn't miss a beat. "A-And! And…you are…right." It almost sounds like she's spitting the word out, as though it's an unpleasant taste in her mouth. "I would be…happy…to have Jabrul as a third-party vendor for Cartier & Co. Fine Jewelry. He's more than welcome to…apply his services and accept a portion of the profits that are made throughout the day. That is, if you are okay with that…Mister Jabrul?"

"Jabrul would be honored, Miss Tiffany!" says Jabrul, thumping a huge, meaty fist to his chest. It makes several loud, hollow _thonks!_ that sound more like an oncoming landslide than chest-thumps.

"Wonderful!" Tiffany squeaks. "We'll get started on the paperwork first thing in the morning."

"Jabrul thinks that is a very good idea! Night will come soon. Jabrul still needs to go to the post office!"

"The post office? Whatever for?"

"Jabrul need to pay postmaster money for flight tax! Oh! And open bank account! Jabrul must be prepared for life in Dalaran!"

"Well, there are still a couple hours left of daylight before they close. The bank account makes sense…but why would you need to pay the flight tax? You took…something to get here, didn't you?" Tiffany eyeballs him, warily, and then skeptically. No amount of gold in the world would make Albani want to know what's going on in her head, but the drogbar _is_ massive. She surmises Tiffany is wondering how he didn't crush the poor beast's back; then again, if the Highmountain tauren can mount their eagles, then surely a drogbar would have no problem at all with a gryphon or a hippogryph or even a rocket.

"Jabrul didn't fly!"

"Then how did you get here?"

"I put him in a box and set him by the mailbox to be picked up," Albani says, plain and simple.

Dead silence. All eyes turn on her.

Tiffany gapes. "You…You _mailed_ him here?"

"Yes."

"You _mailed him here?_ "

"I just said I did—"

"But…! But how? How were you able to…? What made you think…?" She shakes her incredulously. "What?"

"It was his idea."

"It was Jabrul's idea!" says Jabrul. "Albani makes a great carpenter!"

Tiffany's mouth slackens. "Huh?"

Sminx and Timothy Jones exchange glances. "Ya know, I was kinda wondering how he was gonna get up here," the goblin tells her companion.

He nods. "Yes, I thought the same thing. How did you do it, Miss Albani? And don't say you just 'put him in a box'! I want details!"

Albani frowns and cocks her head. "Is it really that important?"

"Yes!"

She shrugs. "Well, I got a letter in the mail yesterday—'bout a little earlier than it is now. Jabrul said he needed to see me in Shackles' Den over in Azsuna, and I had a recall spell set somewhere in the area, so I took a death gate and rode the rest of the way on my horse…."

* * *

Indeed, Moondrift was a very good horse. Sure, he looked no different than all the other Ebon Hold steeds: pale grey hair, blue-white legs revealing bone and hooves covered in a rime of frost, a soft purple mane that which to run between her fingers and hold in her grip when she needed to free a blade; but he was _her_ horse, her very first friend in this undeath life, so she made sure to give him all the respect he deserved. Needed, technically; she did sort of send him to his death by offering him to the Dark Riders of Acherus. (Moondrift didn't seem to mind; he seemed very forgiving, and if he was okay with being her trusted steed for all eternity, unless death do them part, then she could accept that.)

So she guided him east, away from the death gate, and for the next half hour they followed the road away from the ruins of Nar'thalas Academy. When the grass turned to sand and shale and the waters from calm to choppy, she was greeted by Mr. Shackle's guards upon arrival. Jabrul was waiting for her off to the side, casting a fishing line out into the sea. There was a woven basket for him to place his catch next to him. It was packed high with crushed ice, and on them lay silver mackerel, cursed queenfish, and black barracudas of varying sizes. The smell of cooked flesh from the bonfires stirred a sense of hunger in her belly, so she tried not to look at the blank stares the fish were giving to the sky as she dismounted from Moondrift and paid the night elf flight master a gold piece to have him tended to.

"Hey, Jabrul. I got your letter. What's up?"

"Oh! Hello, Miss Albani! Come, come! Sit! Eat!" He waved his hand over to the fire next to him, built away from the tide. "You like fish, yes? Jabrul caught a lot of fish! Plenty for you to eat! Jabrul have seasonings, too! Salt! Pepper! Garnishes, too! Olives, onions, peppers, muskenbutter!" He grinned predatorily. _"Snails."_ Then, more cheerfully, "Come, come! We eat first, then we talk." He spun the wheel a little more, and with a hard yank tore a spinning, wiggling mackerel out of the water.

"Okay."

They took turns descaling and gutting the fish (there was a song in her veins, a siren's ballad akin to a wishbone being tapped, and it resonated at the sight of all the blood; she breathed in, slowly, excruciatingly, through her nostrils). When they were finished, both elf and drogbar sat down and ate.

"What did you need help with, Jabrul?" Albani asked him a while later.

"Jabrul was thinking of going to Dalaran," he said. He tore off a chunk of fish, chewed, swallowed, and tossed the bones to the large pile next to him. "Go to Dalaran and show Jabrul's designs to the masters up there. But…Jabrul doesn't know how to get up there! Jabrul doesn't want to fly," he added upon the questioning look she was giving him. "Jabrul will feel bad if Jabrul hurt bird's back!"

Yes, that was a problem…but she didn't want to offend or make him feel bad (much less emasculate him for bringing up the Highmountain tauren and their eagles), so Albani said, "Have you thought of taking a portal? I'm sure a mage from the Court of Farondis at the palace can conjure you one for a price."

"That would be most helpful! But Jabrul can't give away these gems." He patted the bulging bags on his belt for emphasis. "Jabrul need them to show the masters!"

"They must be very pristine gems for you not to bargain them with."

"They are!" he said, nodding vigorously. "They are pure! Jabrul mined them from far beneath Stormheim! Highmountain! Val'sharah! Jabrul even found gems in the whelplands and the Rhut'van Divide! Look!" He removed a bag and undid the string enclosing it. Albani looked inside; indeed, there were colorful gems residing within, popping out in a sea of jagged, crystalline chips.

"They're very beautiful, Jabrul. This must've taken days to fill up."

"Yes, and it was a very worthy venture!" He closed the bag. "Portal would be nice, but Jabrul can't give these away…so Jabrul started thinking. It took a while, but then it came to Jabrul! Suddenly! Inspirationally! In the middle of the night! Like a worm! Jabrul came up with a much better idea."

"What's that?" Albani picked up a stick and stoked the fire with the tip. Wood popped, cracked, broke in half.

"Jabrul will use the mail system to get up to Dalaran!"

The tip snapped. Albani removed it, expression blank. Half the stick was on fire, and the fire was starting to spread down it toward her hand. She looked up at him. "You…what?"

"Jabrul will use the mail," he said again. "Box Jabrul up and get picked up by Dalaran. They pick up mail from around the Isles, yes?"

"Uhhh…Yeah. They do." Not in the beginning, when the order halls were recovering powerful artifacts throughout the world and gearing their scouts for long journeys to reclaim supplies the Legion were tapping or stealing what they could from their camps in raids. That had been months ago, and spring wheeled into summer, and that had given Dalaran enough time to establish connections with everyone who were throwing their lot in to see the campaign push one step closer to reclaiming the Pillars of Creation and thus push toward the Tomb of Sargeras. All that was missing so far was getting in contact with Suramar; Khadgar had been complaining of 'arcane interference' between Dalaran and the other nations' southern borders, but he (and the rest of the Council) was hopeful he would eventually break through.

"Then it should be simple! Jabrul saw wooden planks from a shipwreck way over there!" He twisted round and pointed an arm to the north, back the way she had come. "If you gather enough, you can make a crate and put Jabrul in it for the post office to pick up."

"So that's why we were eating," Albani said. "You don't know how long you'll be cooped up in there."

"That's right. Jabrul trust Albani more than anyone in the Isles! You are very reliable! Jabrul knows you will tell the masters in Dalaran about Jabrul!"

Albani stared at him, poleaxed. It wasn't a comment she always heard from people that needed help; if anything, they would rather express their gratitude and thanks to someone living and honest than a person who looked like their worst nightmares come to life, had the ability to summon the damned at their beck and call, and had an incurable penchant for bloodlust. The looks still persisted wherever she went, the whispers were still made when they thought she was out of earshot and wasn't listening (Arthas ensured his troops were aware of everything they did; that he had much going for him) years later, though it had died down and migrated now toward her elven kin in the Illidari. To hear it now, something that came far and in between, and to know it was genuine brought another kind of warmth, soft and pliable as clay.

It felt like she was being subjected to Instructor Razuvious's strangulation spell, minus the panic and the rampant, primal desire of wanting to die running rampant and one-track in her mind.

"Th…Thank you, Jabrul," she said. "I…didn't know you felt that way."

"You are the most helpful master I have come across! Jabrul doesn't know many people who can fight off harpies and not balk at the taste of muskenbutter-dipped snails. But your skill…your skill Jabrul likes! Jabrul can make you even better than you were before!"

He was right. She hadn't done much in the way of mining and cutting jewels on Draenor, although she still had a couple caches sitting in the bank at Gadgetzan of what she had excavated in the wilds. That, and she had come to miss keeping her hands occupied and doing something that didn't involve snapping limbs, breaking bones, and tearing hearts out in that rare moment of strength born from unstoppable, manic red-filled psychosis. Those hours spent at the desk in a place she could, in a way, call home, guiltily sated and coolly indifferent once coming down from the high, were quiet. Relaxing.

(She likes to think, even now, it might've been something she would have taken up in her old life, on the side. There were periods when the Plaguelands weren't so loud and the Scourge weren't attempting to overrun one of the Argent Crusade's outposts. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. It certainly wasn't now, although no one had to know the window of opportunity was closing with each passing day.)

It was an interesting prospect, to be sure, so Albani told Jabrul as such, and that delighted him. "Thank you, Albani! Ah, don't mind Jabrul, okay? Jabrul will clean up and get ready while you and get the planks. Jabrul will ask if the brutes can help you build the crate."

"Alright." She looked at the stick she had forgotten she was still holding in her hand. The flames had engulfed it completely and were lapping her armored hand with greedy gusto. Albani shrugged and casually flung it over her shoulder, where it plunked with a sizzle into the sea. "I will find you the best wooden planks I can find, so I'll be a while."

"Jabrul is in no rush! Please, Miss Albani, take your time. Jabrul wants this crate to be nice and sturdy for the masters' birds to pick up!"

She hoped so, too…but this was a world full of magic. Someone would figure it out.

So she went north (Moondrift didn't want to leave the flight master just yet) as Jabrul directed her and waded through the shallow waters, gathering planks. Some makrura and giblins had moved in from the south and circled around easy away from the Oceanus Cove, looking to steal hippogryph eggs from the nests built on the hills beneath the lower jutting cliff sides.

The siren's ballad rang once more, sweet as a church bell at first daylight. Albani walked—forced herself to walk, not run—toward them and unsheathed Frostreaper and Icebringer, twirling them into her hands.

("I didn't have too much trouble," she tells the lapidaries. "It's kind of like mowing your lawn. You just take your time and enjoy the view." She decides to not mention that when she had said that, she meant to tack on 'but with a goblin shredder'; Sminx and Timothy are giving her stunned looks, and she could just make out the former uttering _"Damn, girl."_ Tiffany had gone pale again; Albani hopes she won't fall back and crash into the cabinet. Not many people like having nicks and flecks of blood on their commissions.)

When she came back, carrying the planks and decked head to toe in crude jewelry and shamanistic baubles Mr. Shackle was eyeing covetously, the brutes went to work building the crate. One of them stopped her just short of stepping over a plan sketched in the sand. Half the beach, she saw, was marked with different ways—and wildly varying measurements that could fit a dragon, if she determined them correctly—to box Jabrul in that wouldn't suffocate him after long periods of time, depending on how fast and reliable the Dalaran post office service responded.

"I don't know how much these will go for, but it wouldn't hurt to put them on the market," Albani told Mr. Shackle, removing the purses of (presumably stolen) gold coin and junk to give to him. "I washed them off as best I could."

"But of course, Miss Albani! I'm most certain there'll be…someone who will take interest in such exotic—Miss Albani, what are you doing?!" Mr. Shackle had been passing off the trinkets to Gentle Rosh for him to store at the back of the den when he turned around and was greeted by the sight of a long body lean with muscle and old, white scars. Followed that was her breastplate falling to the ground with a clang softened by the sand.

"I smell like dead fish and animal intestines," Albani said, reaching down to take it into her hands. "I'm not going back to Dalaran until I have a dip."

"But then you'll smell like salt!"

"I'll manage. Oh, and you can keep the change. I don't need it." She left the cave, breastplate tucked under an arm. Several men loitering around on the beach shooting the breeze and smoking blunts paused and followed her with their eyes as she went by.

One of them, a blood elf, blew a ring and raised a beer can her way. "Hey, sexy! Need a hand—"

"No thank you," she said, and gave the group a flat, feline stare beneath her lashes. Blood dashed a thin, spattered streak across one cheek. "I stopped collecting them a long time ago." It had been one of Lady Alistra's favorite tasks for her novices, to send them out into the Scarlet Enclave and bring back various body parts for them to use in summoning rituals during her classes.

She continued on, leaving them crestfallen and more than a little disturbed. She felt bad afterwards, as she stood beneath the waterfall, but it kept them away. Peace by oneself was a nice thing to have.

Once she was sure she was rid of the stench of death and got the blood out of her hair, Albani put her armor back on and returned to the campsite. A large, wooden crate was on a cart, the top open.

He was rubbing and wringing his hands together. "Oh, Jabrul is so anxious!" he told her. "Do you think they will come?"

"It'll look bad on them if they don't. Give it time."

"Oh, Jabrul sure hopes so!"

"Let's get you in, okay?" She hoped it was big enough for him to climb through.

"Yes, lets!" Jabrul gripped the sides of the box with both hands and hoisted himself inside, then reached up and closed the lid down on top of him.

"How does it feel?" Albani asked. "Can you move around?"

The crate rocked back and forth. "Jabrul is fine!" he said; his voice made a very hollow sound, like an echo. "This reminds Jabrul of the tunnels back home!"

"That's great, Jabrul. We're going to take you to a mailbox"—away from Mr. Shackle's Den, because he would much rather maintain his cover as a 'gentleman salvage expert and adventurer-friendly salesman' than a potential prisoner—"and set out a flare so the mages at Dalaran will know there's something to be picked up for delivery." She ran her fingers down a panel; she couldn't feel the grain of the wood through the gauntlet, but there were tiny holes drilled in that she brushed over. "Are you going to be alright, Jabrul?"

"Yes, yes! Jabrul will be alright! Jabrul has spent much longer in the tunnels. One little box will not hurt Jabrul."

"Okay."

She attached the chains at the end of the cart to Moondrift's saddle and, after having paid off Mr. Shackle and the brutes for their services, mounted and drove north toward the crumbled palace overlooking the Illidari Stand. It had earned her curious looks from Izal Whitemoon and the demon hunters loitering around the campsite, and once she had been stopped by Kayn Sunfury, who had asked if the crate was the shipment of obliterum they had been expecting from Dalaran for some time, but he had let her go on when it turned out it wasn't the case (the cacophonous snore from inside it, and the nonplussed reaction she gave him, answered his question, much to his chagrin).

Prince Farondis had asked her if they were also shipments, but of tools needed to repair their weapons and armor for when the naga came ashore again. He was disappointed when that was not so (there came another snore from the crate, and she was jabbed with a pang of pity at the way his face and ears fell), but he allowed her to set the crate by the mailbox where it would not be tampered with. Then she had taken out the flare gun Mr. Shackle provided her with ("One shot only!" he emphasized), aimed it at the sky, and suppressed the trigger. There was an ear-clapping bang, and then an orange streak as the shot roared on a cloud of billowing smoke. It erupted again, not as loudly, into the symbol of the Kirin Tor before it dissipated.

Idri Nightwatcher had frowned at that. "I should hope that doesn't attract any more attention than we've already had."

"I'm willing to stay behind and offer my assistance," Albani said. "I've nowhere else to be for the rest of the day." And the makrura and gilblins were small fry; going after naga that were trying to impede the Court's efforts against the Legion would go much farther in calming the bloodlust.

"That would be most wise…and most generous of you. Perhaps having you around will make Azshara think twice of expending her ilk so frivolously."

So she spent the rest of the evening doing just that, for the naga and their murlocs came again a short while later, bringing with them their tridents and spears, their harpoon launchers and net cannons, their armored might and their elemental magic. By nightfall they had been pushed away, fearful of the inspiration the Court guards were given in the presence of the death knight whose blades were thoroughly soaked in their blood by the time they retreated and swam for the deep, dark comforts of the sea. Then the defenders celebrated, and, as part and parcel for being undead, erected bonfires and feasted while their sentinels kept watch around the palace grounds.

Albani slept then, though she didn't realize she had drifted off until she opened her eyes and saw the sky was brightening in predawn light. She looked over to the mailbox. The crate was gone.

"The mail carriers came just before you woke up," Farondis told her, when she had asked. "They'll be leaving it...er, him, by the shop that is being sent to when you go there."

She thanked him, then opened a death gate and sent Moondrift back into the Shadowlands where he could frolic to his heart's content until he was called upon again. He leaned into the touch of her hand, and through the portal he went.

Afterwards, Albani followed the path down back to the Illidari Stand, paid Izal Whitemoon a gold piece for a flight to Dalaran, and mounted the fel bat.

The crate was placed right by the stairwell leading to the jewelry shop when she arrived, jumping and rocking back and forth. "Miss Albani? Is that you? Are you there?"

"I'm here, Jabrul. You're in Dalaran."

"Oh! That's good to hear! Can you help Jabrul out? It's…a little tighter than Jabrul remembers…."

"Yeah. One sec." She withdrew Frostreaper and Icebringer from her belt and tapped them against one side of the crate. "I'm going to break this open, okay? No magic."

"Okay."

She gave the crate a few hearty whacks until the boards loosened and splintered under the force. The lid shook once, twice, and then flipped open to reveal Jabrul's sinewy arm. With both hands he pushed and kicked through the boards and sent splinters and nails flying every which way until he got both legs under him and rose to his full height. "OH! Jabrul feels so much better now! That trip was a little rougher than Jabrul thought." He looked around in wonder. "So this is Dalaran, eh? Jabrul is impressed. This is the way to the masters, yes?"

"We're right around the corner," said Albani, and gestured to the storefront. "They should be inside."

"It is marvelous! Jabrul will go and make himself welcome!" He lumbered up the steps in leaping strides and managed—just barely—to fit through the open doorway. "HELLO! THIS IS JABRUL!" he cried.

A moment of silence, as she watched him disappear. Then, with a unity that made her ears flinch back, a pair of female voices screeched bloody murder:

"HOLY HAND GRENADE! You're huge!" "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT THING?!"

* * *

"And here we are now," Albani says, capping off the end of her tale. "There's really not much else to add, unless I insist on a self-perpetuating cycle of redundancy—"

"No no no! No! That's quite alright!" says Tiffany, who's suddenly bounding with a burst of energy as she rushes over and gets more or less right up in the death knight's face. "A story doesn't bear repeating twice; otherwise, the moral of the story won't be as impactful!"

"My story had a moral? What would that be?"

"To always be punctual and…true…to your word! _No matter how much you hope that person will forget._ " Tiffany grumbles this last part under her breath, to which Albani's ears twitch and pick up on.

"But I didn't want to forget—"

"Of course not! An audience must never forget the moral unless they want to forget themselves!" Tiffany speaks over her, and just to be sure she's getting her point across she claps both hands on Albani's arms and squeezes once. Hard…but Albani has been hit harder ( _much_ harder; it's like being slapped by a mosquito)…and Tiffany hasn't felt coldness unlike anything she's ever experienced until now; she's immediately overcome with a bout of paroxysms, and she draws back just as quickly, shaking numbed hands for warmth she won't be feeling for quite some time.

She shakes once. Twice. "A-Anyway! Mister Jabrul, do make yourself at home! Dalaran i-is w-w-welcome to e-everyone…b-b-big or sm-sm-small, red or bl-bl-bl-blue! We'll take a l-look at your designs"—she sucks in a breath between chattering teeth—"first thing in the morning!" she spills in a manically happy rush that makes her smile look more like a puckered grimace.

Sminx claps her hands together. "And that's a wrap, folks! Go on, Tiff, Timmy and I can keep this dig running until close. Draw yourself a nice bath, girl, you look like a marble statue ready to tip over."

Tiffany nods mechanically. "I-I-I think I'll do j-just th-th-that." She bares her teeth in a wide, sunny smile. Her lips are starting to turn blue. A nice, warm bath would do her wonders, Albani thinks.

"Let me tell you, hon," Timothy Jones adds, "broken marbles and feet draw the eyes in the wrong way. Nuh-uh, girlfriend! Here, let me walk you home."

"Why th-th-th-thank you, Timothy." She holds out a hand which he takes and leads her out the door.

By the time they're gone, Timothy is shaking uncontrollably, but he doesn't stumble down the stairs.

When they're gone, Sminx has her hands on her hips and is tut-tutting at Albani. "Girl, you really oughta work on that maintaining some sort o' body temperature."

"This _is_ my normal body temperature." She didn't tack on the detail that since forging Frostmourne's shards into the blades they are today, her temperature has plummeted several more degrees than what an average death knight learned in shadowfrost magic. Perhaps someday, when the campaign is over, she won't have need of these blasted things anymore. (They made good crate breakers, though.)

Sminx huffs. "Where there's a will, there's a way! C'mon, Alby, we live in a world full o' magic. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out! There are things that just can't be explained with facts!"

"Then they're opinions," Albani concludes. Then, after a moment of realization, "Ah, or Old Gods."

The goblin nods sagely. "One or the other! Can't have it any other way!"

"Grahahahahahahaha!" Jabrul laughs heartily, hands over his stomach. "You two are funny! Everyone's funny! Jabrul thinks he is going to Dalaran very, very much if every day turns out to be like this! Jabrul looks forward to it!"

If the reception is anything to go by then, then the days are going to go by very quickly or _very, very long_.

Oh well. At least it'll make the days much more eventful now.


End file.
